


all that glorious, temporary stuff

by hailholylight



Series: those white flowers [1]
Category: Cars (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Driving, First Kiss, Gay Bar, Hand Jobs, Humanized Cars (Pixar Movies), Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Kissing in cars, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sharing a Bed, lightning idolizing doc, mcqueen is a virgin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24797947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailholylight/pseuds/hailholylight
Summary: Lightning dreamt of living like James Dean once he left, fast and loud, dying young in a flash of metal and fire. It would've been the most to go down like a phoenix and to rise somewhere in the clear heaven of his Sunday school. He was raised to believe that this life was temporary anyway, this life was just a precursor to the good stuff. Lightning saw no reason to wait any longer than he needed to.He wound up finding a similar anger, the gnawing, void of anger, in gay bars. He didn't really think about what that meant, he didn't feel the need to. All he knew was that these people had some similar kind of fire in their gut, some common way of speaking about the world, some common feeling of exclusion and damning. So he stuck around and made friends.
Relationships: Doc Hudson/Lightning McQueen
Series: those white flowers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1830061
Comments: 15
Kudos: 31





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldenurn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenurn/gifts), [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/gifts).



> massive thanks to objectlesson here on ao3 and gaylibrary over on twitter (and everyone who listened to me talk about cars and this fic in particular) for both inspiring me and indulging me. this is my first doc mcqueen fic and it was really nice to have people looking forward to it.
> 
> this is the longest thing i've written in a while too, and it was comforting to return to some aesthetics i love. time is a bit hard to pin down but i had vague-late-50s in mind. also apologizes in advance for typos and the like-- i edited it on my own.

Lightning McQueen spent his time in shitty clubs where nobody knew his real name, no one asked questions, and no one asked for ID. He kicked cans outside bars until friends snuck him around the back. He pickpocketed cigarettes, stole Millers, made deals with bouncers. He was accustomed to dirt and grime, lived in it, liked to imagine his lungs as sponges for the dust that these small-town rebels kicked up. 

If you asked him, he would never be able to pinpoint what made him so willing to raise hell to be in this scene, what fueled his anger. He had the _normal_ reasons: piece of shit father, yawning, clawing mother. He was freshly eighteen in a world that wasn't made for his going too fast and burning out faster, wasn't made for someone willing to crash over and over again. So he spent his time outside shitty clubs and bars, under neon signs. He made friends with gay kids and drag queens. Got too close to everyone without really knowing anyone, existed as a projection of himself, a camera obscura reflection of who his mom had expected him to be. 

He quit school the year before. Backwoods Mississippi public education doing him no favors besides the few strays he had collected-- a band of misfits jaded by the system and raging against the machine, or at least that's how Lightning liked to see it, Mater and Sally and him. 

Lightning dreamt of living like James Dean once he left, fast and loud, dying young in a flash of metal and fire. It would've been the most to go down like a phoenix and to rise somewhere in the clear heaven of his Sunday school. He was raised to believe that this life was temporary anyway, this life was just a precursor to the good stuff. Lightning saw no reason to wait any longer than he needed to. 

He wound up finding a similar anger, the gnawing, void of anger, in gay bars. He didn't really think about what that meant, he didn't feel the need to. All he knew was that these people had some similar kind of fire in their gut, some common way of speaking about the world, some common feeling of exclusion and damning. So he stuck around and made friends. 

The club was always packed, but if you let yourself relax, you could feel like you were floating, like it was a sticky-humid night and you were alone in a backyard pool. Lightning loved the crowds of men, loved feeling hands brush against elbows, against hips, against exposed collarbone. He loved the _attention_ . The blistering, blissful attention. He loved the feeling of a hand grabbing him and pulling him towards nowhere, only to realize it was Luigi or Filmore pulling him to dance. He loved the queens who smiled at him with this sense of pride, this assumption that he never found enough heart to shake off. He coveted the stares and the whispers, the free drinks, the offers of a place to stay. He never accepted any of them, but god, how he loved the attention, the being _seen_. 

It was summer, and the air was hot, and the club was recovering from a raid that happened a few days ago, some queens coming back with bruises under their painting, with crackling hands and hoarse voices. Stories would crop up later in the night, someone would take the microphone and scream and cry, but right now it was all joy, hands placed over one another, over cheek, over waist, on elbows and shoulder blades. Compliments towards their necklace or their shoes that really meant _I'm so glad you made it. I'm so glad you made it back to us._ Lighting always joined in. 

None of the regulars questioned Lightning when he said he was straight, only made sly, knowing glances between one another. They never set out to prove him wrong, or ask his opinion on men who walked in, or ask anything about him really. They kept their distance and let Lightning inch closer like a tide. They never questioned his name either, which was good for him, all things considered. The thought of having to confess his given name made his stomach drop. 

His group, specifically Flo and Ramone did get off on throwing Lightning towards the laps of strangers, though. The older and richer looking the better. They always kept a close eye on him, and Lightning never truly felt _in danger._ Awkward at worst. But this, their schemes and jokes, was how he ended up dancing alongside _the_ Fabulous Hudson Hornet, silver and worn, but still so bold, still firmly planted in resolve. Flo thought it would be funny, and she _was_ laughing, dolled-up in her sequined dress, long cigarette holder in hand. She was laughing so hard that the soft butch trying to buy her a drink didn't even get her attention. Lightning stuck his tongue out at her, sneering, but lost focus, nearly crashing and burning when he felt Hudson's hand on his waist. Near fainting, near gasping for air, he danced with him, jazz swinging in the background. He was taller than he looked in his photographs, and broader, didn't seem the type to hang out in clubs very often but was obviously comfortable as he swayed with the crowd. He didn't, for one moment, try to act younger than he was, but instead just _swayed_ with Lightning, a certain spark in his eye that Lightning couldn't place, as though he had just told an inside joke.

Lightning was sure that no one recognized who he was (how many young gays really kept up with race car driving?) but Lightning couldn't take this as anything less than fate, than the universe, or god, or whoever, pointing him in a certain direction. He smiled up at Hudson, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and placed his head on his strong chest. His idol, the man he kept tacked to his wall, now standing right in front of him. He was retired now, Lightning knew, but he had to still have connections, ways to get Lightning in the business, ways to turn him into a regular James Dean, or someone even flashier than that. He could almost taste it, the fire, the metal, he could almost feel it wrap around him, strong and steady like Hudson's arms around his waist. 

When the song came to a pause and the couples stopped their dancing, Lightning looked up at _the_ Hudson Hornet, fabulous in every way, and hoped that look was enough. Hudson smiled, took his hand, and dragged him through the loose and drunk crowd out the backdoor. The air was so hot around them that it immediately stuck to their clothes (Hudson in a button-down, three buttons loose, working-class jeans, penny loafers) (Lightning in a loose white tee, sleeves rolled up, dirty jeans and about the shoddiest pair of sneakers in his closet). Hudson took both Lightning's hands in his, pushed him against the brick wall of the alley, the roughness scraping up the backs of Lighting's arms as they were lifted over his head and pinned easily by Hudson. "What's a kid like you doin' here, huh?" He asked, mouth pressed to Lightning's neck.

The streetlights shined halfway into the dark alley, threatening to expose both of them. Lightning stumbled and stuttered, overwhelmed and not quite sure how to say _I'm not gay, sorry_ without it resulting in Hudson walking away-- And he _didn't_ want that. God, he didn't want that. His breath was hot, and Lightning could feel his mustache, his stubble, scratching him up, and he wished he would bleed, he wished he would leave some mark on him, some proof of his living. "I'm--" he exhaled, his eyes fluttering as Hudson tilted his head just slightly up, leaving a new path of fire on his neck, "--just dancing. Just dancing, Mr. Hornet."

He felt a sting of a smile on his skin, "Hornet. Haven't been called that in a long time, boy. What do you know about the Hornet?"

Lightning felt like he was melting, like he was being worn, skinned and flayed, put on display. "I-- I grew up hearing about your races on the radio, catching them on the television when I could."

Hudson chuckled, deep and low, and it pulled something out of Lightning. Something desperate and repulsive, made of shame and black sludge. He tried his damndest to put it back in place but it sat firm in his stomach, staining his insides. "Makin' me feel real old. Grew up watching me. Like what you saw?"

Lightning sighed, stretched his neck up, brought his arms down, his fingertips brushing against Hudson's forearm, feeling the tendon there, resting his thumb there. "Made me wanna race. Made me wanna--" he gasped, Hudson's tongue now hot on the shell of his ear. It felt like dressing up, like wearing a tailored suit. He knew he would have to take it off once he got home, fold it up real neat, hide it between his mattress and his boxspring, but it felt so _cool_ while it was on him. 

"Made you wanna... What was that? Couldn't hear you, kid."

He couldn't make another sound, his lungs feeling like crumpled paper bags, his eyes closed tight, his fingernails digging into Hudson's elbow. The stain on his stomach grew, reaching up to his throat, threatening to choke him. He gasped, shoved Hudson back. He let go completely and Lightning felt like he was losing something in the process, like he was being stripped bare. God, he hated it. His chest hurt and his head was spinning. 

Hudson took a step back, looked him up and down, and seemed to get that this wasn't his normal sort of game. This wasn't playful teasing between two people on the same page. He seemed to understand that. He let his hands drop and he looked at Lightning like he was trying to fit all of his pieces together. Lightning felt nothing but that dark void in his chest, the pit in his stomach, the abaddon sucking him in. He couldn't meet Hudson's eye. He could hardly move despite his want, his _need_ to run away, to get anywhere that wasn't a dark alley, the echoes of jazz and the smell of heat, and sweat, and teenaged confusion. 

"You've never done this before, huh?" he asked, his tone so different from the teasing it had been moments earlier, now calm and easy. He spoke like Lightning was just some poor kid, like he was seeing through his skin to his bones, seeing the cracks and the uncertainty, the pillars of salt and sand that made him up. And Hudson felt like a strong wind, an earthquake, a storm. He felt like the exact thing that would make Lightning crumble. "Y'know what they call me now?"

Lightning looked up but didn't make eye contact, only roamed over the hills and valleys on Hudson's face. "They call me Doc," he said, "I work down at the clinic some blocks away. They all call me Doc. No one knows the Hudson Hornet anymore."

Lightning wasn't sure why he was saying all this, but it did calm him down, take his mind off of hot breath and throbbing-- "Yeah, well, they might not remember you but I do," and he sounded bitter, he sounded like just some dumb fucking kid. It made him ball up his fists. It pushed that fire in his gut up out his throat. "I remember your first Piston Cup. I remember your last." He raised his head high, looking at Hudson directly now, jaw clenched, brow sweating, "I don't know why the fuck you quit. I get that you crashed but--"

Doc placed a hand, big and solid, on Lightning's cheek. His chest swelled, and Lightning swore he could hear a similar bitterness in his voice, "You're just a kid. You think playing around in queer bars makes you understand what it's like out there, but it doesn't. You can hide it. You can come home late and shower the stink off you, but I never could." His eyes were dark, heavy. His hand fell onto Lightning's shoulder and pushed him back against the brick. "They never wanted me there, so when I came back, they had already forgotten me."

"You could've still--!"

He shook his head, "You don't get it, boy. And I can't sit here and make you get it." He looked up towards the sky, the street lights shining on only half his face, "It's late. Go home."

He looked up at Doc and it was like he was fading right in front of him, turning sepia around the edges in real-time. His shoulders hunched just slightly, just barely. His eyes fell to his shoes. Lightning wanted nothing more than to get across everything the Hudson Hornet meant to him, how many evenings he laid on his bed with the radio on, gripping his pillow tighter than anything, chest aching and wishing and wanting him to win more than he cared about breathing. How many evenings he felt like he was so close to crumbling apart and losing himself, but that dream, the fire and metal, the heat and the sweat, the rush of getting across the finish line or dying in want of it-- Lightning lived for that alone. He leaned forward, lingering, then kissed Doc's cheek, his eyelashes fluttering against his crow's feet. It felt like dying, or maybe living, or maybe both wrapped up together. 

"You'll always be the Hudson Hornet to me, Doc. You'll always be mine."

He slipped out from under Doc and started his way home with a small skip, a small remainder of joy. He took a long way home, greeting the sun while it rose all around him. His heart still hurt, and he still felt so weighed down, and there was no Doc next to him to calm him down, so he spiraled all over again. He assumed all he needed was a shower, but under the burning hot water of his small bathroom, he felt like he couldn't breathe. He kept thinking about Doc's breath in his ear, the red patches on his neck from Doc's facial hair, the rising in his jeans. It was too much to think about. It was too much to go through again. He thought he could wash away his sins born from jazz, and sweat, and too much free beer, but even fire couldn't absolve him. 

He laid in bed, hair wet, staring at the poster of the Hudson Hornet on his wall, and decided to never go to that club again. He couldn't risk it. He couldn't risk Doc pulling him apart like that, taking his lungs in his hand and deciding when Lightning could breathe and when he would choke, couldn't risk being found in some dark fucking alley with a man's hands on him and _enjoying_ it-- and that's really what it came down to. He enjoyed it. His heartbeat had never lept like that before, even when Sally and him were petting in his backseat, even when he felt love and affection and a real desire to take _care_ of Sally, he never felt like that. It was the reason he never went steady with her. It wouldn’t have been fair.

But _Doc,_ well, he really just got to the heart of the problem, didn't he? Taunting, and teasing, and making a mess of Lightning in a fucking back alley. Lightning raised a hand to his chest, felt his heartbeat through bare skin. He drew his hand down over his stomach, where all of it seemed to lie, all the nerves and despair. His fingers dipped under his briefs, into the thatch of hair still damp from the shower. He had never gotten hard like this, fast and untouched. He turned his eyes to the poster on his wall, hand wrapped around his cock, Doc tall, in full color, searing smile on his face. Lightning knew what his chest felt like under his hand, how his forearms felt when they flexed, his hands felt on his waist. 

_Fuck._ It was too fucking much. Lightning came, gritting his teeth, closing his eyes, picturing Doc's hand for a flash of a second, how it would feel on him-- his thighs, his hips, his cock. Lightning gasped soundlessly, then sighed, melting into his bed. It didn't help much, or at all. It probably made everything worse, but for a small moment, Lightning felt free, shameless. He felt so wrapped up in his thought of Doc that it didn't occur to him to feel anything other than warm, desperate affection.

Another moment passed and Lightning felt like his shame was going to swallow him whole. He breathed deep, mostly to prove that he still could, then cleaned himself up with his towel, discarding it to the floor afterwards. He rolled over, facing the other wall, mostly blank besides a few handwritten letters from Sally. He fell asleep thinking of her, brunette and bright, full of everything Lightning could never force himself to love. It felt like a mourning, a grief. He dreamt of a thunderstorm, a flash of gray, and a burial. 

\--

Doc's first escape was always something dark and 80 proof. He sat in dark and gloomy bars, full of flickering lights and barflies that had been there since noon. It never made him feel better, always made him come home soaked in panic-sweat, always gave him the weirdest fevered dreams. Of course the one night he decided to indulge himself, go somewhere else for a change, he found some punk kid who knew him from his racing days. It made him feel old, but beyond that, it made him feel like some kind of relic, like some time capsule, like he was a testament to the past. And it made him want to shove that kid up against the wall and show him who he really was, the perverted old man preying on younger boys for some sort of half-life thrill. He wanted to show him the dark underbelly of his desire, the things he had never shown anyone. And it wasn't out of some fucking starry-eyed romantic inclination but rather a warning shot, a threat. 

He reminded Doc of everything he couldn't have. Lightning had his whole life ahead of him and if he played his cards right, he could have a full, normal life, and it wouldn't be perfect, but it would be enough. It would be close enough. He wouldn't worry about being outed because he would be well-trained in hiding it. He could rationalize it, find something to cling to, a hobby or a career. He wanted to ruin him so he would never come crawling back, so he would settle with some nice, blonde Suzy, have a couple ankle-biters. He would live well enough, find a job, be normal. He wouldn't ever come to terms with himself, and that would be just fine. He wouldn't be crawling through the heat of late-night clubs at fifty, trying to find some kind of fix. He wouldn't be kicked out of the Air Force, or the racing circuit, or whatever other dreams he had. He would be just fine.

Despite everything, Doc still went back to that same club the next night, hoping to see a flash of blue eyes among the crowd, a mess of blond hair. He stood at the bar and looked every boy up and down, seeking out those rolled-up sleeves around rough bicep, those shitty sneakers, those blue jeans that looked way too good against the curve of his ass. Doc flicked his tongue over his bottom lip, somehow directing all that pent-up frustration at some brunette with a cocky smile. Doc figured it couldn't hurt. And maybe he could scratch that itch in the pit of his stomach. 

He shared a drink, a useless conversation, and led him out into the alley just like he had the first boy, whose name he didn't even fucking know, pinned him up against the same brick wall and kissed him senseless. This boy was already lost, Doc could tell. He was already up late at night thinking of men's hands on him. Doc was happy to oblige. He got him off with a near-constant whisper in his ear, a hand down his stone-washed jeans. 

It was somewhere between dirt and baptism, somewhere between licking at a sore and chewing it off completely. They flipped and the boy dropped to his knees, laid his hands on Doc's hips, took him in his mouth easily, and when Doc closed his eyes, he could picture his fingers in blonde hair, blue eyes looking up at him. It was embarrassing how quickly he came. 

The boy got up, his knees scraped, and pushed Doc against the wall with a kiss, salty-sweet, flesh-warm. For a suspended moment, Doc's mind was one only one thing-- the feeling of a body against his, the rise and fall of his lungs. He was completely suspended in the summer air. He was nothing but his atoms. 

The boy kissed his cheek, then walked off, taking the whole world with him. Doc stayed, panting, sweating, in the alley. Slid down and sat with his knees pressed to his chest. Shards from his broken ribs, pummeled by his fantasies, shattered by the reality, found their way into his heart. He was left bleeding out, alone, tipsy, illuminated only by the dim streetlamp. 

He didn't come back the next night. He stayed home, tried in vain to read a book he had been meaning to get around to. It was late, but he was restless, and only had one fix. He took his Hornet out to a dirt patch, kicked up gravel and dust, burned rubber until he could feel that tightness around his chest disappear. The car wasn't what he used to be, was hardly shiny and pretty how he used to be, but he was still strong, still heavy, still sputtered and spat to life like he was challenging the whole world to stop him. The spark was there. Just like it was in that kid, quick to spit venom, quicker still to fall apart under someone's hands. Joyfully dancing under neon lights, stubborn as all hell, doomed to collapse. Doc wished, despite himself, that he would reach into that aching heart and tell him to _keep going_ even if it hurt, even if it was the worst feeling in the world, because if he stopped now, the shame would stick to his inside and never let go. It would suffocate him until he only release was driving fast cars and giving handjobs behind bars. 

He stripped down naked once he got home, wrapped himself up in his stark white sheets, ruining them, trying to feel like himself because that one fucking encounter with some jaded kid had completely wrecked him. Maybe it was the reminder that he used to _be_ something, he used to be some sort of inspiration but now he was just a man constantly teetering between alcoholism and sodomy. He worked at the local clinic, but besides that, didn't do much with his time. He buried himself in small injuries, cuts and bruises, broken bones. He fixed people up and sent them on their way, but with that boy in the alley-- He had _changed_ him. He was some sort of icon. He was something larger than his worst thoughts. 

Doc fell asleep with the smell of rain around him, his dreams coming in the form of lightning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay now for my long note that i keep for the end of fics. for one, i cannot overstate my gratitude to objectlesson. sweet morphine is the direct catalyst for this fic and directly inspired a lot of things that happen. and ofc rachy is the reason i even know anything about cars or sweet morphine <3 love you sm
> 
> it is surprisingly not 3am while i am writing this, but 8pm. i spent yesterday looking over this chapter and today looking over the second. i have some sort of quiet love for this fic. i don't want to shout about this fic from rooftops, I'm not incredibly proud or anything-- i just think its kinda neat. i think it's a nice little creation of mine. it's a lot about my current view of relationships and my reckoning with never having the life i always thought i would. it could always be better, and there's always things i could touch on more, but I'm kinda happy that it's not everything + the kitchen sink. i like that it's small and a little messy. a quiet sort of love. maybe that will be a bit clearer as the other chapters come out, and maybe I'm saying too much in an endnote but alas. i hope yall enjoyed the first chapter <3<3  
> oh and the title is from mary oliver iirc
> 
> please leave comments and kudos, i check my ao3 too much for my own good <3


	2. part two

It had been a year since he had stepped foot in this bar. He had a bag slung over his shoulder, wearing sweatpants and a striped shirt, collar limp. His sneakers were so scuffed, they took on a grey-brown sort of color, his laces worn and falling apart in threads. They dragged against the cement as he walked in the place. He had nowhere else to go, nowhere else he would feel safe. He walked in and felt the same as he always had. Music played loud, queens rushed back and forth in heels, carrying drinks, laughing with friends. Men stood along the bar, along the walls, some being pulled into dance and some sipping their drinks, letting their eyes wash over the scene. 

"Lightning! Is that you?" A voice carried over the crowd, and then a hand was on his arm, pulling him down a familiar path towards the few tables in the place. "Let me get a good look at you!" Flo was tugging at his shirt, his arms, looking him up and down with a burning glare. She narrowed her eyes. "What happened?"

Lightning shrugged off his bag, looped it around his leg as he sat down in the stiff bar chair. He looked down, didn't say a word, but everyone seemed to understand, laid their hands on his shoulders, started telling their own stories of being kicked out of their house, school, sports team, church. He just rested his chin on his hand, his shoulders hunched, his chest against the edge of the table, listening. There was an almost palpable sense of safety there, a circle around all of them. It was a memorial to the life Lightning thought he was capable of having, but it wasn't met with a sharp sort of sadness. Instead a somber sort of sameness, an acknowledgment of similar rough pastures. 

Not a single one of them said that they always knew that Lightning was gay or they had seen this coming, which is what Lightning had thought he would hear. They only sat with him. Flo recalling the things her dad had said to her after he found her with the girl next door, Fillmore and Sarge talking about how they left on a bus with friends and never came back to the neighborhood they had grown up in, Luigi saying a few words about leaving his own country, and so on. They found ways to slip jokes into their stories, to make light of something that made their hearts so heavy. Lightning thought of it as a magic trick, one only survivors ever learned. 

"You need a place to stay, kid? I can hook you up with a friend of mine," Flo said. She always looked so good in the neon, her dark skin reflecting the vibrant shades like she had been made to be up in lights. She was wearing a long black dress tonight and lots of gold rings on her fingers, which were heavy on top of Lightning's head. She held so much grace and so much joy within her, that even her sad stories felt easy to listen to, even her concerned voice sounded like music. Lightning wished he could carry that feeling with him everywhere. 

He shook his head, "I'm sure I'll find something on my own. Don't wanna bother anybody." His voice was pathetic. Slightly muffled by the angle of his head, small and weak because he had spent the night yelling, screaming, and because of the always present ache in his chest. A certain sadness, or anger, or confusion-- He couldn't tell. 

"It wouldn't be a bother. He lives alone, knows how to busy himself. He's a nice man, kind, and depressingly lonely," she added, almost as a response to Lightning's tone, "He could use the company."

Lightning laughed despite himself, something desperately holding onto joy, "Alright. If you're sure." He inhaled, sitting up and reaching for his bag under him. He tentatively grasped the spark of hope he was being offered, interlaced his fingers with it, pulled it close to him. A new place, a new person, surely a new life. One free and surrounded by friends. 

Flo went to give her friend a call, dress swishing around her ankles as she made her way behind the bar. She had complete reign over every spot in this place, could go anywhere and talk to anyone, moved with a comfortable grace, spoke with clear confidence. She grabbed the phone without asking for permission from anyone, twirled her finger around the wire as it rang, and talked to the receiver in her honey-sweet voice. Lightning could trust whoever she was setting him up with. He could relax and watch the crowds, not overthinking and spiraling by imagining some creep. 

He held his bag close, made eyes at the men passing him. It was weird, being back here when he was aware, clearly and uncomfortably aware, of the reason he had always felt drawn to the place. He wasn't just some kookie straight boy looking for something different. He was a queer like the rest of them. It had taken a lot of conversations with himself, a few with Sally and Mater, but he had settled with the truth of the matter. Sally and Mater said they didn't mind, Sally not even acting surprised, and Mater slapping him on the back with so much love he nearly knocked Lightning off his feet. They had always been good friends, always welcomed late-night phone conversations and after-school meetups behind the diner downtown. Sally didn't smoke or drink, got good grades, but she never lorded it over the both of them. Mater lived in some trailer-trash side of town, but welcomed both of them to dinner at least once a week. Lightning wondered if he would have to give that up. He wondered if things were different now that Lightning liking boys wasn't some in-group secret but the gossip of the town, the name said in old church-lady's prayers. 

Flo offered to drive him over to her friend's apartment. Lightning agreed without hesitation. He loved Flo's car: a minty-blue 1957 GM Motorama, complete with white suede seats, white steering wheel, and shiny silver stick shift. She always drove with the top down, one hand on the wheel, another laying atop the back of the seat. When she was in a real good mood she would scream and holler at the top of her lungs, " _ Wooooo-wee! _ ", shaking all the trees in her wake. Lightning closed his eyes and raised his face to the moon, reached out to her. This is how he wanted to die, he thought, feeling this open and this free, on the road going far too fast, far too inconsiderate of his own life. There was no feeling like it. 

Flo pulled into a driveway, the house attached small, the wood on the outside dirty, the ratty screen door flung wide open, but the strong wood door firmly shut. Flo held Lighting's head, pressed a kiss to his temple, then told him to stay in the car for the moment. She stepped out, her heels shining in the moonlight, her necklaces and bracelets ringing like bells, like church bells. It was a different sort of religion here, one born out of back-alley blood and millions of failures, out of yearning, out of broken wings, out of hiding, and dodging, and believing in love despite all of it. 

And then Lightning spotted slicked back hair, bright blue eyes, loose collared shirt.  _ Fuck _ . He recognized the face, the body-- His hands had traced over those hips, he had felt that mouth. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere left to go, and hell, Doc might've not even remembered him. Who the hell was Lightning that he would be remembered by the Hudson Hornet? He took a deep breath, but it caught in his throat when Doc made eye contact. Doc's mouth fell open, his eyebrows raising. He wasn't listening, and Flo quickly noticed, following his line of vision. Lightning had to swallow his fear, get out of the car.  _ Get out of the car, for fuck's sake _ . 

His sneakers crunched against the gravel, and his hand lingered on the car door, not wanting to let go, but being inexplicably drawn forward. A hook under his collarbones, a begging in his chest. He kept his head low, didn't make eye contact, kicked the dirt around where he stood, kept his grip tight on his duffle bag. He must've looked pathetic, some small-town kid kicked out, some puppy kicked in the side, some dumbass punk who couldn't keep a lid on his being gay. 

Doc swayed forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Welcome home, kid. Lemme show you around, yeah?" 

Lightning raised his eyes, met the burning blue of his irises, and it scalded him, and there was no feeling like it. Flo shot him a smile, warm and knowing. She tucked a strand of hair behind Lightning's ear. Her lips wrapped in a smile, she laid a kiss on Lightning's forehead and it was damn near the sweetest thing Lightning had ever felt. It was an angel, a symphony. It was a goodbye, but one with a promise on its edges. Lightning reached for her hand, held it in his. And they sealed the promise with a wink. 

He was ushered into the house with a hand between his shoulder blades, pace steady. First was a hallway with an old, uneven floor, bookshelves and tables on either side filled with novels and field guides, newspapers, racing magazines. The walls had these pastoral paintings of men and horses, bright flowers and blue skies. Lighting wondered how often Doc looked into them, if he saw himself as the cowboys or as the flowers.

Doc navigated the space easily to the living room where a small television set stood in the corner, a couch facing the threshold between the den and the kitchen (similarly cramped, similarly old), and next to the threshold between the den and a bedroom. It had a cot type bed, a neat mattress, white sheets, summer duvet. Doc led him in, and Lightning had a brief flash of a thought-- Doc curling up with him on the bed, holding his cheek, running his hand through his hair. It passed as quickly as it came up, but it struck Lightning like a Louisville slugger. He felt sick.

"Bathroom's over here, and it's all yours. Just keep it tidy, alright?" He said it with a hint of a smile. Lightning wondered if he looked at the bed and saw opportunity, if he saw all the ways he could bend and fold Lightning-- Lightning who couldn't get the shame out of his stomach, who couldn't get the mourning out of his head, who felt like a fish in molasses. 

"Sure thing, daddy-o," Lightning managed, his throat closing around the words. He set his bag down on the floor and sat on the foot of the bed. It all came crashing around him, everything that happened, every reason why it happened. Lightning couldn't stop thinking of lying with men, of being held by them, of the way their hands felt when they brushed against his. Every childhood crush, every longing glance, each one a nail in his coffin. He held his head in his hands, and he couldn't stop himself from collapsing in on himself. He took a breath, then wrapped his arms around his middle, doubled over, his face aflame with embarrassment. Doc sat next to him, which made everything worse. He didn't want to do this now, not in front of him.

"It'll get better. It will. It won't feel this heavy all the time," Doc said. He threw an arm around Lightning, held him close against his side, his other hand going back and forth on his own thigh. "I see a bright future in you, kid. You just gotta let yourself get there."

"I don't want to," Lighting replied, his stomach churning, his eyes closed, his voice getting more and more choked and sad, "I don't want it. I don't want this. I want to be home."  _ With my friends, safe, at home _ . He didn't want to live out of a duffle bag, and in that moment, as clear as anything, he didn't want to die either-- He just wanted anything but this, this ripping pain. Doc swallowed, as if he was the one being gutted.

"I know. I do, I swear. I know."

Lightning laid his head on Doc's shoulder. He didn't cry, he didn't give himself any sort of release, but he did lean into Doc. He accepted the warmth and the stability that dilapidated house offered. He accepted the room, and the bed, and the clothes he had brought with him. "Would you mind staying with me? Just for the night?" And it sounded as pathetic as anything. He sounded weak. He didn't know that voice, he couldn't place it. Doc licked his lips and Lightning thought about his tongue on his collarbone, licking up the summertime sweat under his jaw, taking Lighting's fingers in his mouth. It was a bad idea, but bad ideas made Lightning feel like himself. 

He turned his head just slightly, melding closer into Lightning's space, finding all the curves and gaps in the line of his body and filling all of them, meeting all of them. It hurt. To have someone that close, that kind, that warm. Lightning was hot all over. "I'll be just down the hall, through the kitchen." 

It should've been a cue to pull away, but Lightning instead pushed their feet side-by-side, now connected from head to toe. Lightning was nothing but breath and heat, and Doc was nothing but flesh. They merged and made something akin to life, something similar to breathing. Like a tide, like a gust of wind. Something with strength and a mustard seed of faith. "I know," he said, trying again, "But I just-- Strange place and all, and I just--" He couldn't get the words out right, he would never be able to, "I dunno. Want you to stay."

He chewed on it for a moment, laid his cheek on the top of Lighting's head in the meanwhile. His grip was firm, his legs unmoving, and Lighting was weak and easy to pull along. So he listened carefully, waiting for the silence to end. "You're not trying to seduce me, kid, are ya?"

Lighting laughed, the first time in what felt like forever, the first real time. He shook his head as well as he could, his hair getting all disheveled and shaggy. "No, old man, not trying to do anything, promise. Just want--"  _ just want to feel your arms around me, just want to feel safe, just want to know that no one is gonna be able to sneak in here and set the house on fire _ \-- "Want you here."

\--

The one thing Doc had never prepared for was the boy looking that pretty. His name was Lightning McQueen, so Flo said, and he almost called bullshit, but when he saw him again, a year after the first time in that first alley (the first kiss, the first boy, the first hands), he knew she had told god's honest truth. He looked just as reedy as he did the first time, all broken shoelaces and flushed cheeks. He looked like he had been chased by dogs, or wolves, or himself. Doc spotted his bag and it made his heart break. How could he ever say no? How could he ever refuse this rose-cheeked boy and his problems? So he let him inside, let him walk through the same hallways he had been walking through for thirty years. He let him sit on his guest bed and nearly cry. He let him sit against him and tumble apart in quiet whispers and pleads to stay.

And now Doc had his arms around this boy, holding him while he sweat through his dreams, while he drooled and mumbled in his sleep, always saying something, always making noise. Doc couldn't get up, or walk away, or return to any sort of normalcy. He was pinned, completely, and he had let it happen. He had practically begged for it. 

In the dark, where no one could see him, he laid a hand on the boy's neck, felt his pulse. It was steady now, no more leaps, no more sobs. Doc wanted to claw it out of him. Find the source of the beating and sink his teeth into it. He wanted to cry, and kick, and scream. He didn't need this here. He didn't need a reminder of the last whiskey-soaked year, bar-riddled, blues-coated year. God, the last year. Doc had fucked every blond-haired, grinning boy he set his eyes on. He got good at it, the glances, the lingering touches. Doc had gotten good at spotting the boys who would go to bed without saying a single word, especially not their names, which meant Doc could pretend they were his boy (who didn't belong to him in any way, shape, or form). 

But now the kid he had been picturing in all of his dreams was here, and Doc didn't want to sleep. He had the real thing, he didn't want to dream about him anymore, the boy Doc had thought about for a year straight, who had dug inside of him and shook all of his neatly hidden desires, all of his calmed beasts. He wanted to keep his eyes planted right here for all of eternity. 

Lightning's eyelashes fluttered against his cheek, delicate, and Doc was reminded of his childhood summers spent blowing dandelions and skipping rocks at the old lakehouse his mom's family owned. He hadn't felt that peace in so long, had thought that it'd left when Doc did, had peeled out and gone its separate way, but it was all in Lightning. Despite his name, and despite whatever the boy thought about himself, he was just like any other flower. Doc ran his thumb back and forth and could only feel the silk of a petal. What a beautiful thing it was, to belong to nature so completely that god created you in the image of her flowers. 

Doc was nodding off, unable to fully keep his eyes open, one moment fading into the next and the next moment Lightning was staring back at him. It nearly killed Doc. Lightning hummed, but didn't say a word, just covered Doc's hand with his own. It felt like an offering, but Doc couldn't be sure. What could be an offering could be a death sentence. Lightning's eyes burned into Doc's, his gaze half-lidded and overlaid with a small, keen smile. A brush of arrogance, a hint of approval. Doc felt like he had been training for this moment, but he was woefully unprepared for it. 

He brushed Lighting's hair back and the boy's eyes closed, and, Christ, that sent a shiver through Doc. He was  _ enjoying _ it. He wanted it. Fuck, Doc wanted to kiss him right there, wanted to pin him down and fuck the lights out of him-- He breathed in, then out, his chest rising, then falling. His ribs, now old sighing trees, shook leaves into his stomach like butterflies. It had been a long time since he had been infatuated, had found a man so beautiful. But McQueen was  _ perfect _ . He was gorgeous. He was a painting, some hidden classic, some reconstructed masterpiece. And he had landed in Doc's arms,  _ wanted to be in _ Doc's arms. And Doc knew he couldn't take advantage of that. He was meant to provide safety, nothing else. 

The acknowledgment crashed into him, the way the truth crashes into the unsuspecting. He swallowed the lump in his throat, soaked up Lighting's eyes, and made a silent vow to him between those sheets, under that summer moon. He wouldn't ever harm a hair on McQueen's head. Would never push or prod him, would never make a promise he couldn't keep, would never let him know about the other boys, all of them looking like him, all of them a substitute for him. He would never push that sort of pressure on McQueen. Doc was older than a lot of the surviving men-- The ones who didn't get dragged behind a pick-up, the ones who didn't shove themselves into marriage, or into chastity, or had been pushed into jail. It was a miracle he had made it this far with a job, and a house, and his life. He could handle a bit more baggage if it meant protecting the crinkled boy in his guest bed, the one whose experience with men probably boiled down to a drunken alleyway kiss and a few bathroom handjobs. 

When he woke up, the boy was gone. And Doc shouldn't have been so surprised. He sunk into the mattress, the late morning sunlight casting shadows where McQueen had fallen asleep. He should've delighted more in his presence, been considered lucky that a bird so beautiful in a world so temporary had flown so close. He pressed his face into the pillow McQueen had used, was all caught up in the feeling of loss, that McQueen's voice felt like an echo. 

"C'mon, grandpa, you've been sleeping all day. Thought you folks were supposed to be early risers. Don't you have a job or something?"

Doc could've cried out, could've gasped, but all he did was turn his head and lay his eyes on the prettiest boy he had ever seen. He would gladly worry every morning, grieve every morning, if it meant he could feel so sweet afterwards. He smiled, soaked in sleep, sun-warmed. Faint freckles were dusting McQueen's arms, he could see them now that McQueen was wearing some ratty tank top tucked into blue jeans-- Doc could write novels about those blue jeans and all the ways they had ended up in his dreams. He sucked on the inside of his lip, tasting blood, tasting longing. "It's my day off, let me sleep, boy." He pushed his face back into the pillows, surrounded by the scent of McQueen. 

"Well, if you have a day off, we should take a drive, don't you think?"

Doc had a feeling he might regret asking. "A drive?"

"In the Hornet!" McQueen yelped, dropping onto the bed, "Wanna see how she drives first-hand."

Doc sighed, nearly pulled apart. He wanted to  _ drive _ with him, in his Hornet, his escape. He was just so insistent on getting into every nook and cranny of him. A year spent god-knows-where, taking up so much space in Doc's head that he went to bed most nights (or early morning) feeling like his skull was gonna burst, and now he was  _ here _ , wanting to ride in his Hornet. Doc hated how precious he was, how sparkling. He didn't even know what it meant to Doc. He rolled onto his back and looked up at McQueen, fists full of his sheets, smile bright on his face. "He. See how he drives. Hornet ain't no she, I can promise you that."

McQueen's face fell a bit, his grip relaxing. Doc wondered how his nails would feel digging into his skin. "Right, yeah. He. Him. Wanna see how he drives. Does that mean we can?"

Doc hummed in thought, but also to draw out the moment. He wanted to keep his eyes on McQueen, wanted to drag over his neck, shoulders, waist-- A road of his own, and one Doc felt called to how he felt called to the race track. He felt like he could burst at the seams, felt like cracking his own ribs, breaking his own nose. A violent, rising, surging infatuation that gripped him tight and refused to let him go. He nodded, giving in, and he was completely fucked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) i love these boys nd i love writing them and aaa!!! i hope yall enjoyed and pls feel free to leave kudos and comments <3<3


	3. part three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a pretty long chapter whoops. also second to last part! also.... Flo content . love her <3

Lightning was flying-- he was free. The steering wheel wasn't even in his hands-- Doc said he could drive the Hornet over his dead body-- but every time they rode over a backroad hill or bump, Lightning felt his stomach drop in the most pleasant of ways. This was what he wanted out of life, kicking up gravel and laying patches on roads no one used anymore. He wanted someone willing to drive this fast with him, willing to take him in and make a home, and Doc seemed willing. Lightning could still remember the look on his face under the moonlight, the way his eyes wrinkled like he wanted to smile and just wasn't quite sure how to. He seemed scared, Lightning could sense it on him, could feel the same fear threaten to choke him-- But the door was locked, and it was just the two of them. It was just the two of them in the car, rushing down a dirt road. 

Lightning had rolled the windows down, sticking his head out of the window and shouting like Flo did, shouting at the trees, shaking all their leaves. Doc played the radio loud, louder than any old man had the right to, sang along to _Swinging on a Star_ in a crackling, joyful voice while Lightning felt the wind on his face. Lighting wished for moonbeams, for better, for the stars. He wished for this feeling in his heart always. He never felt like he could hold them right, always ended up fumbling them, missing the good times while they were there, waking up in a cold sweat from a nightmare about all of his life passing him by. He wished for time to stop so he could appreciate the look on Doc's face when he turned to gaze at him over his shoulder. His eyes were low on the road, his lips carved out clumsy syllables, and he looked so _happy_ driving. He looked happy in a way he didn't in back alleys, in his own home. 

That morning he had looked so _sad_ when Lightning was watching him, before he noticed he was there. He looked like he had just come back from a funeral, small and reverent. Lightning found a rising urge to protect him, despite his age, despite his experience, despite his toughness on the track and elsewhere, Lightning wanted to protect him. Hold his torn soul in his hands and piece it back together.

Lightning sat back in his seat, lungs full of fresh summer air, hair a mess. He rolled the window halfway up, still appreciating the chill that the wind gave him. Doc turned briefly to look at him, and Lightning felt nothing but light and bone-deep warmth, the kind that kept plants alive. He felt this lurching urge to press his hand against the wrinkles around Doc's eyes whenever he smiled, push his thumb against the skin and memorize the pattern, as though he were making a plaster mold. The song changed-- a crooning love-lost piece.

 _I'm a fool to want you_ , the song rang out, _to want a love that can't be true_. 

Lightning looked at Doc and all he saw was hope. A broken-down house and a ramshackle man, held together by sheer force of will, but with very little anger. Lightning wondered how he moved with so little anger, tried to match him, the way he flicked his wrist to check his watch, the way he kept rolling up his sleeves. He wanted to press his lips to the dip between his knuckles, the valleys between bone, ask if they had ever thrown a punch and how they hadn't gotten addicted to the feeling. 

Lightning wasn't very well known for starting fights, but he had gotten into plenty of them. Big fucking jocks wanting to show off by kicking the shit out of the local queer, proving that they weren't like him and they never would be. even before Lightning was outed. Everyone still knew. They knew something was _wrong_ with Lightning, even if they hadn't had a word for it. He got good at slipping their arms behind their backs, stepping on their knees, dislocating their shoulders. He just wanted them to know that he wasn't some helpless fucking kitten, but a _man_ , just like them. Of course, he was usually blamed for starting the whole thing-- Plenty of pepper-shakers willing to back up their nosebleed boyfriends. Towards the end of his time there, he had come full circle, had become exactly who they wanted to be. Angry, irresponsible, loud. He balled his fists at anyone who looked at him. 

Doc's voice was smoother, quieter, and it worked like a salve, cooling the rush of blood rising to Lightning's face. Clouds parted and the sky opened up. The sunlight shined right between the both of them. The song swooned and swelled, rose and fell, and the car slowed down, their heartbeats along with it. It was early afternoon, and the air was so hot that Lightning could feel fully formed beads of sweat on his collar now that he was back in his seat. He could see beads of sweat behind Doc's ear, rolling down his jaw in one straight line. He licked his bottom lip. 

_I'm a fool to want you. Pity me, I need you._

Lightning's blinks were slow but frequent, his heartbeat slow but hard behind his ribcage, sheltered and aching. Doc didn't need him, had firm footing without him, hardly knew him. The last year, and Lightning's dreams, nightmares, fears, and hopes, had been a raft. When he hated himself and wasn't sure that any of his gnawing thoughts were real, he could remember the way he felt when Doc had his mouth against his neck. He could remember the feeling after he went home, the feeling he had every time he saw that damn poster (which he refused to take down and couldn't take with him). When he got shoved out of his house on his ass, he could remember that Doc had felt like home-- And as long as he was going home, as long as he knew where home was, everything would be okay. 

He didn't know how to tell Doc that without ruining whatever budding sort of bond they had, so he let the music play, rested his head on the window, and shut his eyes. He couldn't say how long they kept driving, but the low, evening sun was greeting them once they got home. And Lighting was exhausted, as if he had just run a marathon, or screamed for hours at the top of his lungs. Doc shut the car off and it was just the two of them. Tired, worn out, blissfully together. 

The silence between them was heavy, but in the way a good blanket is. The way the sun is heavy when Lightning lies on a patch of grass in the middle of spring. Lighting couldn't keep his mouth shut. "...How often did you think of me? In the past year?" He felt stupid, so he looked down at his shoes. He folded his hands. He sucked the inside of his cheek. Doc just stared at him like he had said the sky was green. Lightning stumbled over his next few words, wringing his hands, "I just-- Well, y'know, I have your poster on my wall, so I couldn't _help_ , but think of you, and I was just-- 'Cause I was just curious and all. Hudson Hornet knowing who I am-- But I bet you didn't even--"

"Don't call me that," Doc said swiftly, "Just call me Doc."

"Right, fuck, sorry." Lightning could've cried. _Christ_ , he just ever said the right fucking thing-- Always said the stupidest shit. He clenched his jaw, dug his nails into the denim of his jeans, "I just-- I just... It's alright if you didn't think about me."

"I thought about you, kid." He took a deep breath and stretched his palms against the steering wheel, "I thought of you. I wondered if you were doin' okay." Neither of them broke the silence after that, the quiet settling like dust, shining in the sun. Lightning wanted to ask more, but there was a sorta sad look on Doc's face, like he was talking about someone who died, so he left it where it was. He chewed on his bottom lip, drawing blood, and then moved closer. It felt like a return, being pressed against Doc's body. A homecoming. He closed his eyes and-- Yeah, this was exactly what he needed. He would be okay with having this and only this, happy even. All the mysterious and sad history, all the humanity in Doc's character, it only served to make Lightning enjoy his company that much more. Less because he was the man in the poster, and more because he was the man in front of him. Warm and open, willing to give his house and time to a boy he met in an alley. The wrinkles around his eyes were kind, and Lightning wanted to press himself into them. 

Doc wrapped his arms around Lightning's shoulders, laid his cheek against Lightning's temple, and something fluttered in his stomach. "Let's go inside, hot shot. I'll make you something hot to eat."

Lighting perked up, "You'll cook for me?"

There they were, those baked in crows-feet, giving away a smile without Doc's lips ever having to move. Lightning felt time move slow. "Don't see why I wouldn't. You're under my roof."

\--

Doc was surprised he had been able to stop driving, almost didn't know where he was when he pulled into his driveway. He was so aware of how close McQueen was to him, where his arm was laying as he pushed into him, eyes drenched in sleep, mouth upturned like he _knew_ what he was doing, how he was driving this old man into insanity. The summer air almost choked Doc to death in that car, next to that boy. It was a death sentence being near him, and Doc still couldn't imagine being anywhere else. He took him inside and poured him a glass of lemonade, which he gulped down, sweat rolling down his neck, Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Doc could hardly fry an egg knowing something that beautiful was so close to him, but he managed anyway. They ate in quiet, their previous conversation still lingering in the air. 

What a stupid boy. What a boy, made of too many sad and nervous looks. Doc bet he came off as real tough to the people that knew him, but in front of his idol, his icon, the man he had hung up on his wall (which Doc hated thinking about), Lightning just fell apart. He was a mess of stuttered and half-baked sentences. He was unbelievably fragile, and Doc just didn't want to crush his dreams. 

"You're being so nice," Lightning said with squinted eyes, blue still bright, lips still pink as all hell. Like he was some fucking poster boy for lust, (but he was just nineteen and budding into suggestive youth, but he was just barely dipping his toes into the honey of desire, but he was just a boy) but he was just a boy. So Doc didn't say anything about the way his cheeks were flushed from the heat, the way his shirt clung to him. 

He simply shrugged, "Don't see a reason to be mean."

"You were mean," McQueen said, eyes dipping low, fingers fiddling with his fork, "In the alley. I think you were mean."

And, _fuck_. He was pathetic. He was downright fucking insufferable, and Doc damn near wanted to eat him alive, throw his body off a pier, make a mess of his blood and spit-- "Yeah, well... Guess I've changed." 

"Yeah?" he asked, now with his finger on the rim of his glass, making circles, his eyelashes shining in the sunset, "I thought a lot about you changing, y'know. Thought a lot about--" A crash, a death. A plate had fallen out of Doc's hands as he was putting in back in its cabinet, and now it was just dead ceramic. "Shit! You alright?" McQueen rushed out of his seat, barefoot, the idiot. 

Doc stuck a hand out, keeping him away from the mess, heart beating so damn fast he was worried it would burst. McQueen bleeding because of him would be too much, McQueen's blood on his floor. _Shit_ . McQueen, for the smallest moment, looked like Doc _had_ stabbed him, and he couldn't take it. His head was a mess, and he felt like he was ruining every pure thing around him, rubbing his hands all over innocence itself. He heard a train in the distance and he wondered if McQueen would ever fucking leave. And the cicadas were screaming, and the crickets were chirping. He could hear the toads making their own symphonies. All sorts of flies were coming in through the open window above the sink, so Doc shut it, then grabbed a broom. "Just sit back down, boy, let me take care of it. And don't curse in my house."

McQueen stood still for a moment, then gave a pitiful nod and walked back around to his seat. Doc realized this was his life now, tiptoeing around shards, each of them threatening to puncture his heart. Maybe he was the pathetic one. A man of broken bones and sore wounds. He dumped the ceramic in the trash. 

Doc slept in his own room that night, and the night after. And it felt like it'd been a week since he'd last touched him, held him close. Lightning asked every night to go see a picture, to go on another drive, and god, Doc was so scared he wouldn't ever be able to let him go. McQueen was a normal boy, trying to figure out what a normal life was going to be for him, and Doc would never be able to let go. Every boy was going to look like him, every kiss was going to taste like him. 

And then it actually _was_ a week since they had touched, and Doc felt like clawing off all of his skin and wading into the ocean because McQueen was _everywhere_. He sat on the couch and watching television, he came home smelling like grass and rain, he left his damn socks all over the house. And he kept needing Doc to teach him things. How to wash dishes, how to cook small meals for himself-- He kept looking at Doc like he was a well of knowledge, the bright, shimmering idolization different than it had been in that alley, (his eyes burned into him in that alley) now something quieter and more consuming. 

He haunted Doc in a more physical way than he ever had in the past year. Everything was contained within small glances while Doc was cooking, small passes, indulgent stares. Doc tracked the way McQueen raised a glass to his lips, the way he crossed his legs at his ankles. He wore shorts all over the house, went topless during the evenings. Doc had to keep reminding him to wear a shirt to the dinner table. He stalked around in the middle of the night, his footsteps loud and muted through the walls. He paced in the kitchen for hours, and Doc held out on checking up on him. He held out night after night, staring at his wall, his ceiling, shoving his face into his pillow (which did not smell like McQueen, the way the other one had). And right when he felt like he couldn't take it anymore, like he was willing to go and shout at McQueen for causing so much fucking noise, for being everywhere, for getting kicked out and moving in-- All things he wouldn't fucking mind if Lightning wasn't so goddamn infectious-- McQueen knocked on his door. He walked in without getting a reply. 

He was a shadow in the doorway, and he was a living, breathing ghost, he was everything Doc was at that age. He was aching, Doc knew, he was haunted in his own way. "Hey, Doc. I can't-- Well, I can't sleep. I was wondering if we could maybe go for a drive again, since that wore me out the first time-- And I know you've said--"

"No," Doc said, firm. 

"Right. Alright. Okay." He shuffled a bit in the doorway, then stepped back to close the door. Doc sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. He felt like he was walking into his own grave. 

"You can sleep in here," he said, he though it killed him to do so, even though it made his fucking throat swell like he was allergic, like his body was giving him every warning to stop and he kept going because he'd gotten so low that he couldn't imagine not giving McQueen _anything_ when he asked like that. The boy must've known the power he had over Doc, because his smile beamed even in the dark. 

"Yeah? Maybe we can go on a drive in the morning." And McQueen sounded so sure despite the qualifier. He stepped toward the bed, each inch closer a nail in Doc's coffin, because he knew what all of this was going to lead to-- A broken heart of some kind, dying of some kind-- a sad, drunk story, a weepy-eyed ballad. He knew what this kind of attachment led to for men like him, boys like McQueen. But it felt good to have him in his arms again. It felt good to have him tucked up against his chest. 

\--

Lightning's back was against Doc's chest. He could feel his breath, in and out, in and out, slow and steady. He could feel his heartbeat if he focused. His arms wrapped around Lightning, his cheek pressed against the top of his head, his legs intertwined. A week had felt more like another long year, another four seasons spent cold and dry, spent clawing towards something out of reach. He never wanted to leave Doc's bed, his house, but he knew he would have to eventually, would have to get on his own two feet eventually, which just made his heart hurt worse than it already did, knowing he wasn't welcome at home anymore, hadn't seen his friends in a week, didn't even know where they were. 

He kept going on walks, long and hard walks until he got lost and had to retrace his steps for hours. He would come over drenched in sweat, and Doc would always pull his eyebrows together like he was looking at a sick dog. He kept thinking about punching holes in Doc's wall, fucking up everything he owned so he could get kicked out again, but then he would be sitting on the guest bed and Doc would bring him something to drink and sit with him, a foot apart. He would ignore Lightning if he asked to go anywhere together, but he couldn't help but ask if he could do anything anyway. He would teach Lightning small things about cooking, how to do the laundry, how to tune an engine. He laid his hand on Lightning's as he held the wrench, and Lightning nearly passed out. 

But it had been a week since _this_. Since he had felt Doc surrounding him. He wanted to look at Doc's face, see his eyes get low and sleepy again, so he turned around, and his heart picked up like he had turned the ignition. Doc just got him _going_ , got him thinking, got him breathing fumes. He felt indestructible around Doc, so vulnerable at the same time. He laid a hand on his cheek, and he could feel his whole body light up, He could've kissed him. He knew what he tasted like. He could've kissed him. He could've felt the way his tongue pushed against his, against his neck, against-- But all he did was look. 

It must've been obvious. It must've been written all over his face in bright red writing, but Doc didn't say a word. Just smiled gently and ran a thumb across his cheek. "Sleep," he said, "And wake me up when you do. I wanna show you something in the morning."

Lightning breathed in, his lungs shaking, fluttering like butterfly wings. "Waddya wanna show me, old man?"

"How to race." He slipped his hand in Lightning's hair, "How to actually race. I'll take you out in the Hornet and I'll coach you, see if we can't get you in some races around town."

Lightning popped up, breaking from Doc's grasp, disturbing the sheets, half sitting up and half leaning over him. "You'll take me out in the Hornet? You're pulling my leg!"

Doc laughed and it was a musical. "'M not, swear. You like racing so much, I figured--"

"I've only ever done drag races!" He jumped out of bed, started pacing all over again, "I've never--! And in the Hornet! Grandpa, you might just redeem yourself yet!"

"Redeem myself?" Doc asked, laughter still lingering in his voice, now propping himself up on his elbow, "What I'd do? You're gonna put a hole in my floor, boy, pacing like that."

Lightning shushed him, waved his hand in dismissal. His heart was a firecracker, his ribs breaking at the thought of racing in the Hornet, the thought of _racing_ , properly, with a professional. He could've screamed, jumped for joy. The Fabulous Hudson Hornet as his couch. Lightning could take on anyone, do anything, could paint the town red and then some-- Oh, he felt on top of the _world_. "Coaching me. _Coaching_ me!"

"You'll wake the whole county, and then we're gonna be in some real trouble. Get back in bed, McQueen." The words were tough, but the tone was nothing but humorous. He pulled the sheets back and sat on the edge of the bed, watching Lightning go back and forth. 

"How am I supposed to sleep like this?" He stopped in front of Doc, "I could kiss you, I really could," Lightning said, because he had so self-control and felt dangerous enough to let himself slip. Something twinkled in Doc's eye, but he didn't say a thing. And it only served to embolden Lighting. "I really could," now continuing to pace, "like the alley, how you kissed me then."

"Alright, kid, I get it. Get back here." He waved him over and Lightning walked between his legs, but didn't move to lay back down. The air was tense between them, but Lightning wanted to bathe in it. He wanted to live in this space between them, hold Doc and tell him he _meant it_ , he really meant it. He could've fucking _kissed_ him, damn anyone who would say anything about it. Damn the world and its stupid fucking rules. If Doc had asked him just then, Lightning would've given himself over, presented himself like a blooming flower, let Doc crush all his petals. But he didn't ask, because he didn't think of Lightning in that way. He could've cried right then, everything swirling around in his stomach, but he didn't, because Doc was staring up at him, his hands casually on his hips like it shouldn't have meant _anything_ , like neither of them knew how they looked at men, like their sins didn't matter in the dark. "Lay back down, McQueen." 

And so he crawled back into bed, Doc's hand still on his hip, their faces still inches apart. Lightning could've disappeared in the tension between them, defining the space between them. He reached forward, placed a hand on Doc's cheek, and he could see all of his years laid out backwards and forwards in time, he could see his glory days, and his shameful nights. He pushed his thumb against his baked-in crow's feet, and he thought hard about kissing him. 

"How did you know?" He asked, voice dipping once again into the pitiful. He always ended up feeling small in Doc's arms. 

Doc breathed in deep, Lightning feeling the vacuum of air he left in its wake. He was a black hole. He was a singularity. He was everything, and he so easily consumed all of Lightning's passions. He _was_ all of Lightning's passions. He felt as though he had given his whole life to Doc before he had even met him, and now-- _Now_ he was doing it all over again, trying to find a way to give away all of himself. He was so willing to separate himself from himself. It should've worried him. But Doc felt safe to hide in. "I wonder if you ever truly know something like that, something like love. I think it's all about trusting, y'know. Too much certainty and you wind up spinning out."

"No, I mean... Not love. Smaller." And he could've said more, but his head felt so full and empty at the same time. He felt like he was slipping into something-- into that darkness, into his desire, like he was indulging himself. He hoped his words were enough, but he knew they never could be. 

Doc hummed, "I think it was obvious. I just learned how to ignore it." His thumb squeezed Lightning's hip, "Until I couldn't."

Lightning could understand that. He closed his eyes, ducked his head just a bit. There was a bitterness in his voice, a regret, like a wilting iris. Lightning wondered how many boys had slept across from Doc, how many boys he had told this much to. Doc didn't seem like the sharing type, but the dark pulled something out of both of them. Lightning felt special just by being here with him, hand pressed to his cheek, feeling the muscles in his jaw as he spoke, as he clenched his jaw at Lightning's questions. He wanted to shove his face against his neck and feel his voice at the source. Anyone kinder than Lightning would've stopped, and anyone crueler would've let him sit in his thoughts. "Was that before you after you crashed?"

"Before," he said, simple and easy, but Lightning knew how much weight was behind his crash, how just bringing it up must've hurt him in some tricky way, some way he would never explain to Lightning. He had seen the pictures, the collapsed metal, the sack of a body dragged out of the flames. He thought Doc would die. He readied a vigil. And Doc had survived, sure, but he didn't race anymore. Lightning's heart broke from miles away. "It had gotten out while I was in the hospital. I came back to people whispering about a man visiting me, how they had always known something was off about me. They made it clear I wasn't welcome."

And Lightning's heart was on the verge of breaking all over again. He moved his hand down to his neck, his palm against his pulse. He could feel how his breath had quickened, how it suggested a sob but never broke into one, and he felt a deep, palpable sadness. Doc had been so used to carrying it alone. He had no idea some kid from some town had always been carrying it with him. 

"For what it's worth, old man, I was always looking forward to the day you started racing again. Never took your poster down." Lightning cracked a smile, more for Doc's sake than his own, doing all he could to lift the burden off him. Doc returned with a small twitch in the muscles around his eyes. 

God, Lightning wanted to fucking kiss him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay end note time. I'm thinking very seriously about writing more for this conception of the boys, idk if i wanna do it in a sequel or just add onto this but we'll see. I'm not very good with writing things long term (i have a pea for a brain and i shift my focus very often), but this fic might be worth trying for. i really really love these boys, and while i like where i stopped writing, i also want to explore them so much more. there's so much history that i haven't gotten into, and so much i wanna write. we'll see if my brain can handle it lol no promises <3


	4. part four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the finale ! i love these two so much and I'm impossibly glad i wrote them. hope you enjoy <3

McQueen was a natural. He wasn't scared of crashing, felt he had nothing to lose, and it showed in his driving. It almost scared Doc, how willing he seemed to crash, but he looked so happy behind the wheel that Doc couldn't imagine him wanting to die too bad. He spun around corners, hollered at the top of his lungs, didn't get a scratch of the Hornet. When he stepped out of the car, he was covered in dust he had kicked up, smiling like an idiot, like he had just won a prize. He walked over and threw his arms around Doc, who had been standing just off the way, nearly knocked him over. All fire and hope, that kid was, stood there prepared to die but so ready to live, so ready to spin out doing something he loved, still hoping what he loved wouldn't kill him. He was the mess of contradictions he had to be, and Doc wanted to iron them out, make him neat and straight so he wouldn't have to war so hard with himself. Instead, all he did was hold him, all he did was stand firm in the dirt and the dust and not choke, all he did was hold him. 

"You're really something, kid," Doc said, cheek-to-cheek, "You belong behind a wheel." And that seemed to touch McQueen in some way because he sank into Doc's arms wonderfully. He mumbled a 'Thanks.' almost pouting, almost falling apart right there. Doc could've never imagined a moment like this in all his life, and definitely not with a boy like McQueen, who went 150mph on a dirt road just to feel something. Not with a boy so much like Doc himself when he was racing. God, it filled him with that spark again, the one that shatters all of his bones, wraps around his throat like vines. He understood this feeling, this calling. "We should get you properly trained up, mm? Diet and exercise. Get your mind clear."

McQueen groaned and pulled away, and god, it was pathetic how empty it made Doc feel, like he was cutting off a limb, or staring into a black hole. "I shouldn't have to exercise to race, it's just putting your foot on the gas, going faster than the rest of 'em." He was walking back towards the car, a bit of swagger in his step. He moved like he had just won the Piston Cup. 

"How many races you been in, boy?" Doc asked, opening the passenger's side of the car. Small gestures kept him afloat, small expressions of his affections because he couldn't do the big ones. He couldn't spin him around, tilt him over, and give him a big kiss. His hand brushed against the small of McQueen's back, and that was all he could allow himself. 

McQueen slipped into his seat, getting his grime everywhere. Doc would have to spend hours cleaning the Hornet if he ever wanted to take it into town again, but he didn't feel too peeved about it. "Plenty. Told you, racing for pinks, that sorta thing," he said, running his hand through his hair, pushing it back. It stayed in place and Doc genuinely wasn't sure if it was because he had product in it or if he needed to take a shower, but both ideas drove him different sorts of crazy.

"Drag races," Doc said, squatting down on his knees despite them protesting. He reached a hand forward, placed it on McQueen's knee, "Most of them one-on-one, huh? That's not the same as real racing, on a real track, a dozen other cars, all of your inches apart but never touching." He grinned wide. "There's nothing like that. Drag races won't cut it anymore once you start doing the real thing, I promise you."

McQueen's eyes contained the kind of hope Doc could only dream to have, a sky-blue type of hope, sun-shining type of hope. He looked down, and without any sort of hesitation, reached for Doc's face like his hand was meant to hold it, like it didn't matter that the sun was shining down on their sins, that they both knew perfectly well what a touch like this meant. Doc's eyes kept flitting to McQueen's lips, bitten raw, almost bleeding. He wanted to taste the metal of his blood, wanted to know for certain that he was real and living before him. "Y'know," Doc started, his voice more tender, "When I was your age, I couldn't get enough of anything. Dunno how you limit yourself to the occasional drag race."

McQueen stayed still, ran a finger across Doc's cheekbone, then traced his jaw. Doc didn't know how he could do that without looking over his shoulder, without being absolutely terrified. But he was willing to crash and burn behind the wheel, guess it made sense to be willing to crash and burn under the sun, his hands on a man's face, dipping down to touch his neck. Still, it was a far cry from the type of boy Doc had met a year ago. 

He only made contact with his fingertips, like he would hurt Doc by doing any more, like he was asking a question. And Doc wanted desperately to say  _ yes _ , to tell him to keep going. They could climb in the backseat and get out every desire they had built up in the past year-- But instead, he took his hand off McQueen's thigh, grabbed his wrist, and pulled it off his neck. It was about as pleasant as pulling off his own fingernails, but he managed. He couldn't break this boy's heart, couldn't handle another heartbreak of his own. 

Even though it looked like McQueen's heart was breaking right in front of him. Doc shut his eyes for a long moment while they sat there, hands and bodies apart but joined together in some metaphysical way, or at least drawn towards each other, reaching like sunflowers towards an open sky. Doc stood, his knees crackling, and walked around to the driver's seat. Maybe he should've said something, maybe he should've addressed it, but he just started the engine and took off towards home. 

\--

Lightning wanted nothing more than to slam his head straight into a brick fucking wall. He was beyond stupid. He took a shot, looked at Doc with his best fucking eyes, and he rejected him. He  _ rejected _ him. God, Lightning wanted to drive off the interstate, or-- God, he just wanted to curl up and disintegrate, or choke on his own teeth, or just, fucking,  _ go _ . Run away, be done with this stupid fucking game, and all its stupid rules. If Doc was a girl, Lightning would be kissing him right now-- a thought that both terrified and delighted him-- but Doc was a stupid fucking man, and there were  _ rules _ to this sort of thing, courtesies and warnings. And danger, Lightning knew there was danger, but when Doc was looking at him, telling him about his love of racing, Lightning didn't fucking care about the rules. Until he was made to, of course, until Doc took his hand off him and walked away. 

He crossed his arms and stared out the window, giving off his best sad and small aura. Maybe Doc would pity him enough to kiss him. Maybe Lightning could at least get a root beer float out of the deal. He turned to ask for one when he saw Doc with his mouth halfway hanging open. "Look, McQueen."

"Just call me Lightning, grandpa. You think you wouldn't care about sounding ridiculous." And yeah, his tone was bitter, angry, but Lightning himself was fucking angry. And sad. Heartbroken, that must've been it. His heart was fucking aching and it was all Doc's fault. He couldn't understand why he wouldn't just  _ kiss _ him. It couldn't have meant much to a man who went out to bars to kiss other boys, to  _ fuck _ other boys. It shouldn't have been that fucking hard. 

"That's not-- Christ, kid. Look. Listen--"

"Spit it out already! C'mon!" Lightning threw his hands in the air, "Lost all your fancy words, huh? Do I drive you that crazy, Doc? 'Cause you oughta be able to control yourself at your age--"

The tires screeched under them and they near totaled, slamming against the curb. Doc swelled, towering over Lightning, hand gripping the seat behind him. His voice was thick in an accent Lightning hadn't heard much of, mostly only when westerns were on and Doc was waxing about his time on his home ranch-- "You listen here, boy, and you listen well, alright? You don't know nothing about this life. You don't know nothing about me, alright?" He grabbed Lightning's shirt and pulled him forward, their faces inches apart, his voice now dangerously low, "Don't talk to me like you know what it's like having you around, reminding me of everything I never had. Don't you dare act like you know anything, like you're on top of the fucking world when one mistake will get you thrown out. After a year, you think you would learn that, you think getting kicked out of your home would make you realize that. You don't know the danger you put me in, boy. You don't know anything." He let go, let Lightning drop back in his seat. 

Doc looked down, gripped the steering wheel, but the car stayed where it was. Lightning barely dared to breathe for a long moment, then decided he couldn't get enough. "What do I do to you?" he asked in a whisper, a tremor, hardly a sentence. 

Doc's chest rose, up and down, nothing near peaceful. He was an earthquake, a disaster. Lightning wondered how long it would take to fully shatter under him, if he would regret it or welcome it completely. In the pause between them, full of tension and hot air, Lightning wondered if he would ever be able to figure it out, figure himself and this whole mess with Doc out. He wondered if he would ever be able to say that the whole reason he was here and not at home was because of Doc, not some abstract gut feeling, but because Doc had lit him up, and Lightning had never been able to go back. 

"You wreck me," Doc said, eyes closed, and it stung, it hurt, "You... I've thought about that night ever since. In the alley." He said it like he was undressing a wound. Lightning understood the feeling completely. "And last night-- In my bed." He shook his head, stiff and tight, "You don't understand how you affect me. And I've been tryin' to keep it under control. I don't wanna hurt you, kid. I've hurt too many people, said too many things and wound up-- Well, I wound up alone." Doc closed his eyes, but Lightning could tell from his voice that he was on the verge of tears.

Lightning swallowed. He could feel every atom in his being, every atom in the seat under him, felt like Doc was right there mingling with every inch of him. Doc clicked his tongue and reached for the ignition, an apology halfway out his mouth, but Lightning grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks, and pushed up and forward, connecting their lips hastily and messily, painfully. Lightning's hand was back on the side of Doc's face and it was  _ perfect _ , all of it. He could feel the way the sun had baked into Doc's skin, could feel his eyes open, then close, his mouth melting into willingness. Lightning had never kissed like this before, with such hunger, such drive. 

He was in Doc's lap the next moment, straddling his hips, Doc's arms around his waist, lifting his shirt, flat and wide against the small of Lightning's back, and he moaned because there was no other way to respond to someone like Doc touching him so possessively. There was nothing else to do but fall apart in his arms. Doc's tongue was somewhere against his, both of them a mess of spit, tasting of blood (Lightning really had to stop biting his lip one day). And the track was nothing compared to this kind of bliss, was nothing compared to the release of pressure kissing Doc gave him. That aching in his chest had gone up in flames, and embers coughed their way up his throat. 

"Wait--" Doc gasped, "Wait, wait-- Somewhere secluded." He reached for the ignition, and Lightning just wanted both his hands back on him. 

"Can't make it the drive home, Doc," his mouth found a spot behind Doc's ear, "Can't make it that far. Please."

Doc laughed, which cracked a smile across Lightning's face. He ran his tongue over a spot behind Doc's earlobe, then down the curve of his jaw, damning all the shame left in him. He could taste heat and sweat, could feel the very beginnings of stubble surrounded by an intoxicating sort of softness. "Wasn't thinking about home-- Christ-- Wasn't thinking about home."

"Then let's stay here, no one can see us." He sucked gently, lightly, with just enough caution to be playful despite already being hard, being beyond desperate for Doc to reach in his jeans and get him off the way Lightning knew he had gotten others off behind that same bar. He wanted to show Doc that he was different, he would feel different, because Doc felt  _ different _ in ways Lightning couldn't put a name to. He felt real and solid, whole. He felt-- God, he just felt so good. "No one can see us, Doc."

Doc sighed, tilting his head back. Lightning took both sides of his face in his hands, dipped his head lower to Doc's Adam's apple, pressed his tongue against the hill, felt the subtle crevices embedded in Doc's skin. Doc's hands were on Lightning's waistband, holding onto the belt loops on his jeans. All he had to do was tug, all he had to do was say the word and Lightning would strip-- He had never felt more willing in his life, and it should've scared him. It should've made him stop and question what he was doing, but Lightning couldn't do anything but keep going. 

He slid his hands down Doc's neck, flat against his chest, and it felt like connecting. He could feel Doc's heartbeat and it felt like his own, like they had been in sync this whole time. The world could burn around them, but their hearts would continue ticking in the same rhythm. His hands went lower, down to Doc's belt, and his mouth, his betrayal of a mouth, filled with spit, completely giving him away. 

"Take it easy there, tiger, take it slow." 

"'ve  _ been _ taking it slow." He laid his palm over Doc's jeans, earning him a breathy groan and a hard kiss. It drove him backwards at first, but he was guided to the side, placed on his back against the seat of the car. It briefly came to his attention that his first time was gonna be in the Hornet, and he tried very hard to not get even more turned on by that fact, but Doc was over him, mouth pressed against his ear, hands on Lightning's wrists how they had been in the alley, and he became nothing but his deepest desires. 

"Cool it, Lightning, lemme take you somewhere." And Lightning could smell his aftershave, his summer-sweat, could feel his heat. He nodded because he couldn't do much else. Doc had all of him in the palm of his hand.

\--

They fumbled their way into bed, both of them a mess of hands, breath, skin. Pounds of flesh digging deep for something  _ more _ . Something to satisfy the clawing in their chests. They moved together, no commands, no questions. The whole of it was an answer to everything they had been asking themselves. It didn't feel concrete, or solid-- it felt as fluid as anything else between them. It was a snapshot here, a flash there, a firecracker, a gunshot, a wound. 

Doc kept wondering when Lightning was gonna jump up and leave, say he made a mistake, he didn't actually want this-- And Lightning kept wondering when Doc would realize that Lightning would never be worth all this affection, all this impossible affection. 

The sun came up, and it felt like a new century. The sheets, sun-warmed like they were, wrapped around their legs, keeping them close. Lightning laid his hand on Doc's chest, Doc's hands somewhere on Lightning's shoulders. They breathed together, sighed together, spoke the same words at the same time like their clocks had always been ticking together. It was stupidly wonderful. It was a love song, a flame. It was perfect in every way-- And it wouldn't last. This feeling wouldn't last. Both of them were preparing for a death. But in the moment, it was enough. The temporary sort of love that people specialized in. Lightning still imagined himself going up in smoke, but maybe there would be someone to burn with him-- or at least someone to give a eulogy. Doc still imagined driving alone on an empty street, still imagined life as a series of bars, a shotgunned collection of the best and worst feelings possible. But there would be someone to give his eulogy. There would be someone that could at least pretend they knew him. 

Neither of them had fully exposed the dark, sticky underbelly of themselves, their worst impulses, but it felt like they didn't have to. They recognized that there was  _ something _ hidden behind ivory ribs, and they moved on. They circled around each other in spite of it. Doc imagined taking Lightning to Thomasville, where he had ran when he was Lightning's age. He imagined introducing him to his old mentor, and it wasn't the same as telling Lightning his deepest, darkest secrets, but it was the closest he had ever come. And Lightning dreamt about being caught with Doc on the street, having Sally or Mater ask who he was, having to lie. He dreamt of Doc becoming his own black hole of a secret, and it wasn’t the same as telling Doc how awful he felt when he thought of Doc with other boys. But it was close enough. 

Lightning looked up at Doc, that sadness that had covered his eyes somewhere else now. He wanted to ask a million questions, but his voice couldn't manage a single one. He wanted to tell Doc what this meant to him, that he was larger than the Hudson Hornet now, and that Lightning was larger than he ever thought he could be. He wanted to say all the ways he had gotten over himself and how all of them led to this point-- He wanted to lay it all out for Doc, but he couldn't find the right thread to pull on. 

Doc ran his hand through Lightning's hair, his scalp marked with sweat, and gave him the softest look he could manage, his crow's feet and his lips melting into a smile. He understood the pathways to moments like this. Lightning didn't have to say a word, didn't have to explain how he got here. Doc had taken the same journey in a different bus. He ran his thumb across Lightning's cheek, a wet streak spreading along with it. Doc never knew someone could look so pretty when they cried. 

Lightning shoved his face into Doc's neck and stayed there while Doc held him, cheek pressed against the top of Lightning's head, hands all around him. They would be happy if this was all they got with each other, knowing it was a miracle to find anyone in a world like this. These small summer memories, small promises in the shape of their bodies pressed together, in the shape of wildflowers-- It would be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is normally where i would write a long ass end note about how much this fic means to me, but my brain is so fried from finishing it that i can't even put into words all of that so... I'll just say that writing these two boys had meant a lot to me and i love them a lot. I wanna write more of them, and i might just. they, in all interpretations, have really grown on me. 
> 
> as always, thanks to objectlesson for writing sweet morphine and introducing me to the wonderful possibilities of car fic, and thanks to goldenurn for introducing me to sweet morphine and cars in general. i love yall <3


End file.
